


a normal life

by Eliane



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Hotels, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: "And isn’t that what they’ve been doing all along, in front of the whole world? Haven’t they been dancing?"Shanghai 2017 to Rotterdam 2018. Canon compliant.





	a normal life

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to carlo for proofreading this, being their usual thorough self and fixing my terrible use of commas! 
> 
> thanks to marianna for being v. supportive and encouraging as always. i wouldn't have written this if not for tdatd (which is still one of my favourite things) so technically this is on you. 
> 
> i wanted to finish this before this fedal book comes out & ruins my timeline so yay me! this is fiction and is intended to be read as such. all remaining mistakes etc are mine.

Pre-tournament press conferences are a repetitive exercise, one that Roger nonetheless endeavours to turn into an entertaining event. For the journalists, at least, if not for him.  The questions are always eerily similar, endless variations of the same original one, and even the faces in front of him are for the most part familiar and recognizable. To distract himself Roger looks around the room, taking in the _decor_ – different tournament, different sponsors, different background colour – although it doesn’t do much to alleviate the boredom. Or to shake off the disquieting sensation that he’s already been there. Has already done that.

This one is different, though, Roger can tell right away. Not because of the room or the faces but because of the distinct lack of another person sitting next to him. It’s stupid how quickly you can get used to some things. Roger blinks and, instead of letting his stare wander across the Shanghai press room, he focuses on the answers he’ll have to give: Yes, he’s here to win. Of course he loves Shanghai, both the city and the tournament, it’s an important part of the season for him, you know? No, he hasn’t settled on a definitive schedule for the end of the season yet, it’ll depend on how this tournament goes. No, he hasn’t seen Rafa since Prague but he’ll see him tonight. They’re having a team Europe dinner, isn’t that nice?

He’s not sure they’ll ask him this one specifically but he’s pretty sure they’ll ask about Rafa. They seldom miss an opportunity to do so.

And so it begins. It goes well enough, at first. Roger quenches the feeling that there is something missing and smiles. He isn’t too cranky nor is he too passive-aggressive, he’s being exactly what he needs to be. He answers the first question about Rafa without flinching and he does manage to add the bit about them having dinner. They all look delighted with this piece of information, just as Roger knew they would be. He is, after all, very good at this. Which is when he says it.

It’s not much. It’s not an outburst that will be turned into a headline as soon as possible but Roger hears the sentence come out of his mouth and he has to make a conscious effort not to wince. There is a slight, awkward laugh before the journalist asks another question to which Roger responds and then the press conference is over, the incident seemingly forgotten by everyone except Roger.

He gets up, his own words resonating in his mind. Just a slip, he thinks, as he exits the room. One so small that nobody remarked on it. It’s not even that surprising: he was feeling a bit out of sorts before the presser began and, anyway, it could have been much worse.

But Roger is lying to himself and he’s aware of it. It’s not his words that are bothering him the most, nor is it the fear that they might have been understood for what they were. It’s what he felt when he said them that’s preventing him from putting the whole thing behind him. Unmistakable and oh so worrying. 

Relief.

 ( _And it sounds like if Rafa pulled out of Asia you'd have a better chance._

_Yes, but it wouldn't be the same without him, so._ )

***

Roger is still thinking about it when he and Rafa return to their hotel room after dinner, late enough for the corridors to be empty. Technically, it’s Roger’s hotel room – Rafa has one booked under his name – but they almost always share. When Roger is on his own, that is. Rafa might spend one night in his if they both reach the final but, then again, maybe not. 

Roger closes the door behind them and turns around to lean against it, watching Rafa move across the room with the same ease as if he’d been living here forever. It’s a skill they all end up acquiring along the way: the ability to make any space theirs for a few days, a few weeks at most. Rafa bends down in front of his bag and Roger throws a glance at Rafa’s knee before letting his gaze move back up to inspect Rafa’s face. There are no visible signs of pain etched on Rafa’s features but that doesn’t mean much. Still, Roger will take whatever reassurance he can.

Rafa’s hands dig inside the bag in search of something; Roger can’t fathom what. It’s not like he has any intention of letting Rafa sleep _clothed_ and Rafa doesn’t do that anyway. It’s been what? Twelve hours or so since Rafa arrived but they haven’t had time for anything more than a hug and a kiss hello. Their little reunion dinner was nice, of course, but Roger must admit that he might have thought once or twice during it that doing it the next day would have been more convenient. Some of the guys are playing tomorrow, though.

Now that it’s just the two of them, Roger finds that he is in no rush. He has missed Rafa and he wants him but he is also happy to stand there and watch him be. Rafa, who is in Roger’s hotel room. Rafa, who is throwing clothes on the rather expensive carpet as if the place belonged to him. Not so long ago, Roger had thought these kinds of scenes something of the past, treasured – if painful – memories. He is so fucking glad he was wrong. Rafa’s presence, them being alone together, is enough to soothe Roger’s nerves and suddenly, the earlier incident isn’t bothering him so much anymore. He even feels like talking about it.

“You know,” he starts, “the journalists asked me about you.”

“Strange,” Rafa replies, without stopping whatever it is he’s doing. “They never ask me about you.”

“Ha,” Roger says. “Very funny.” He can sense Rafa’s satisfaction at his own joke radiating from the other side of the room. “One of them even asked me if I wasn’t upset that you’re here.”

At that, Rafa stops rummaging through his bag. “Really?”

“Not in so many words,” Roger shrugs, “but that’s what she meant.”

Rafa stands up in the middle of the pile of discarded clothes, facing Roger. “What did you say?”

“Just, you know, that it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Ah.”

Roger waits for Rafa to add something but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares back at Roger with a cautious expression, something between wonder and bemusement. Right. Time to change the subject.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Roger asks, gesturing toward Rafa’s bag.

For a moment, it seems like Rafa might push it but then he frowns and says, “No. Maybe in the other bag.” He starts walking in the direction of said other bag and Roger takes one, two steps, catching up with him. He grabs Rafa’s wrist with his hand and Rafa stops right where he is.

“Is it important?”

Rafa glances down at Roger’s fingers and his eyelashes flutter. “I… No.”

“Okay,” Roger says, releasing his grip on Rafa’s wrist and intertwining their fingers.

They must look ridiculous, standing in the middle of an opulent suite, both dressed in their nice clothes, holding hands like they’re nothing more than blushing teenagers but Roger doesn’t care. Rafa’s hand is warm against his, his skin so very soft and Roger takes a few seconds to appreciate the fact that he can do that. That he’s allowed to. When Rafa looks back up at him, Roger moves forward and kisses him, the faintest brush of lips, before pressing another kiss against the junction of Rafa’s neck and his jaw. Rafa sighs.

“I’ve missed you,” Roger whispers against Rafa’s ear.

They’ve only been apart for two weeks but he has. It’s been kind of suffocating.

“Yes,” Rafa says. He tilts his head, searching for Roger’s lips. “Me too.”

They kiss again and it’s not a brush of lips, this time. It’s deep and slow, their tongues finding each other again and again, making Roger shudder, making him gasp _._ Roger disentangles their fingers and slides his hands under Rafa’s shirt, pressing his fingertips against the small of Rafa’s back, bringing them chest to chest. Their bodies fit together perfectly, they always do. Like this, with their bodies working together instead of against each other, it sometimes feels to Roger that they enter a reality where nothing else but them exists. The other world – the one where they have obligations and images to maintain – is a distant memory, an inconsequential echo.

Roger breaks the kiss.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says. He intends for it to sound like an invitation but it almost comes out like a question.

“Yes,” Rafa replies. He makes his way toward the bed, not bothering to check if Roger is following him. Why would he?

But Roger isn’t. He is glued to the spot, his gaze on Rafa’s back, on the way his shoulder blades stretch the fabric of his shirt. It’s a bit mad how much Roger wants him.

“Roger?” Roger blinks. Rafa is standing next to the bed, staring at him, expectant. “You are coming?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. He gives Rafa a smile, trying to shake himself out of this weird state of mind. “Yeah. I am.” 

***

The next day it’s Rafa’s turn to deal with the press. Roger spends most of his afternoon alone, attempting to keep himself too busy to think while waiting for his phone date with Mirka.

“Hey,” she greets him when he calls. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” he says, although it doesn’t sound very convincing. He tries again, “Everything is fine.”

She hums in response, noncommittal.

“And you, how are you? How are the kids?”

“We’re fine,” Mirka says. “The girls decided that they want leopard tracksuits.”

“Oh,” Roger exclaims, delighted. “Did they?”

Mirka laughs. “I knew you would like that.”

“Can I talk to them?”

“They’re busy right now. But I’ll tell them you approve.”

“Good,” Roger says, before launching himself into a retelling of the dinner they had the night before.  How fun it was. How everybody seemed much more relaxed than the first time they did this, in Prague. How glad he is that there appears to be lasting effects of all the team bonding they did two weeks ago.

He doesn’t talk about his press conference. He doesn’t talk about Rafa.

There is a delicate balance to this thing they do. Or, rather, to this thing Roger does. At times, he wonders if he should have become an equilibrist instead of a tennis player, if that wouldn’t have suited him more. But tennis is also a game of equilibrium, often won by small margins, where one must have the ability to stand right near the edge of a cliff and find the strength to take a step back instead of diving in.

So, although Roger is aching to talk about his presser, about the relief that had shot through his veins when he let go, for the tiniest moment, he doesn’t. He takes a step back and turns his head toward the blue, blue sky above him.

“I miss you and the kids,” he says.

“We miss you too,” Mirka answers. “Look, I have to go. Are you feeling better?”

And well. Maybe Roger isn’t as good at concealing things as he’d like to believe he is.

“Yes.” His voice doesn’t waver. “Thank you.”

They hang up and Roger throws a quick glance at his watch. He has some time before dinner with his team; they’re supposed to go over his strategy for tomorrow. And then, back to his room and to Rafa.

Maybe he’s got the metaphor wrong. Maybe it’s not an equilibrist he should have become but a juggler. Someone forever trying to create the illusion that they can fit in their palms way more than what two hands should be able to contain.

Until, inevitably, something falls down.

***

“You’re right,” Roger says. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the sofa, their legs entangled in the middle. They’re watching a movie or, well. Rafa is watching a movie. Roger is watching Rafa watch the movie. He doesn’t like Gladiator anyway. Too sad.

Rafa frowns.

“This,” Roger explains. “Us. It’s not very interesting.” Rafa is still frowning, looking cosy and beautiful and Roger decides they should touch _more_. He bids a silent farewell to the sofa armrest which was surprisingly comfortable and bends forward, slipping his hands under Rafa’s sweatpants and resting them against his calves. Rafa’s eyes follow Roger’s movements before settling on Roger’s face again, observing him with a new kind of understanding.

“You read my press conference?” Rafa asks, one eyebrow raised. He’s wearing the same curious and a bit bemused expression as he was on Monday, when Roger talked to him about his own presser.

Roger shrugs in response because, yes, he did. So what?

“What you want me to say?” Rafa asks. It’s rhetorical, or at least Roger thinks it is, and he doesn’t answer. Rafa continues, “Roger is a great boyfriend, yesterday we had nice dinner, then nice sex?”

_Why not?_ Roger wants to retort.  It’s a childish impulse, the same one that used to push him to smash rackets. That sometimes still does. He quenches it, as he has learnt to, and chuckles instead, although he’s pretty sure neither of them finds the current situation funny.

“That would make for some interesting headlines,” he says, keeping his tone light. Playful. As if this were a game and not something that has the potential to break them both.

“Roger…” Rafa starts, but Roger shakes his head.

“Forget about it,” he says. He lets go of Rafa’s calves and moves forward, settling between Rafa’s parted legs. Their faces are very close and Roger can see every little imperfection on Rafa’s skin, every mark left by the passing of time. Roger doesn’t crave getting older but he finds that right now, he doesn’t mind. There’s something to be said about getting older with Rafa. About the fact that they’re both still here, together. “Let’s just forget about this,” he repeats, lower this time. He presses one butterfly kiss against the crinkles at the corner of Rafa’s eye. “We can do something interesting, instead.”

Roger’s fingers brush against Rafa’s thighs, making their way up to his hips. Rafa exhales.

“We never watch the end of the movie,” he complains but it’s feeble.

“It’s a sad ending,” Roger says, toying with the waistband of Rafa’s sweatpants. God, Roger loves Rafa’s legs. He doesn’t tell him enough. “I love your legs.”

“Thank you,” Rafa laughs. “And the ending is not sad. They are free in the end, no?”

 “He dies!”

“Yes, but he dies fighting.” Rafa gives Roger a look that, Roger guesses, is supposed to convey how inept Roger is at watching movies. Considering that Rafa is also flushed from Roger’s ministrations and that his eyelids are half-shut in anticipation, it doesn’t really work.

Roger buries his head against Rafa’s belly. “I’m not arguing with you about this,” he says. “Unless you’d rather argue instead of me blowing you?”

“Ah.” Rafa’s skin turns a deeper shade of red and isn’t it a marvellous thing, how Roger still has the ability to make him blush, even after all these years? “No. No arguing.”

“Good,” Roger murmurs. He pushes Rafa’s sweatpants down his legs before throwing them on the floor.

Rafa isn’t wearing anything underneath and he is already hard and, in this moment, there is nothing Roger wants more than to go down on Rafa. He doesn’t want to talk anymore and he doesn’t want to think. He wants this: Rafa’s cock in his mouth, the weight of it, the taste of it. The sounds Rafa makes with Roger’s hands on his body, his fingers digging in the flesh of his thighs. He wants Rafa to feel surrounded by him, to forget everything that isn’t him and he wants to forget everything that isn’t Rafa.

It’s a bit rough, Rafa’s fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of Roger’s neck but Roger doesn’t care, he doesn’t care _at all_. His mind goes blank, his own arousal a distant thing, and he thinks, _please_.

When Rafa comes, Roger swallows it all before pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against Rafa’s hipbone, against his navel, against the skin separating Roger’s lips from Rafa’s heart. He rests his head there and listens to the beat of Rafa’s heart slowing down, a soothing sound.

“You are okay?”

“Yes,” Roger answers, refusing to look up. He takes in a breath. “I love you, you know?”

“I know.”

Rafa’s voice is so very tender and it doesn’t make Roger hurt any less.

***

It’s a spur of the moment decision. He’s been following Rafa’s match against Grigor from the players’ lounge and Rafa is about to serve for the match. Roger could stay right where he is and watch Rafa wrap this up from the comfortable chair he’s sitting on. He’ll have plenty of time to congratulate Rafa later, after his own match. Or he could go wait for Rafa. Who is going to stop him?

There is a tiny voice at the back of Roger’s mind ready to argue. It’s too much. He’s playing with fire, has been since his pre-tournament press conference, really, and this can’t end well.

Roger ignores it and ignores Severin and Ivan’s worried gazes on him as he grabs his bag and gets up. He doesn’t bother with an excuse; they know full well where Roger is going.

He arrives just in time to see Rafa leaving the court and starting to walk toward him. He’s smiling but when he spots Roger, his smile fades away, replaced by the bemused expression Roger seems to be eliciting so often lately. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Roger,” Rafa says, clasping their hands in their usual way and Roger is aware that people are watching them, members of the security staff and tournament officials. What on earth was he thinking? “We talk about this later,” Rafa adds, in a whisper. The emphasis on the ‘later’ makes it clear that he means after the tournament and not later today. Roger nods, numb.

“Just going to practice for a few minutes,” he says out loud. His words appear to be coming from far away, as if he were listening to an echo of himself. “See how the conditions are today,” he continues, cringing but unable to stop. He has no clue who he’s trying to convince.

“See you later,” Rafa says and Roger nods again.

The whole exchange lasted thirty seconds, a minute maybe.

He picks up a racket from his bag and makes his way out on the court. No one stops him, of course. He knew they wouldn’t. There must be some noise coming from the crowd but Roger doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear a thing He divests himself from his jacket, putting it on the bench and goes back to position himself on the baseline.

He is grateful for the weight of the racket in his hand, this grounding, anchoring weight. Without it, he fears he might disappear, his body vanishing into thin air, the particles composing it rendered to dust.

Rafa’s voice resonates in his mind. _Later_.

So Roger tosses a ball and starts doing what he does best.

***

Except _later_ never happens. Rafa gets hurt and everything is a bit awful. Roger wins and makes a mess of his press conference by being too stubborn and too defensive and goes back to their hotel room to see that Rafa is already packing his things, half-limping.

“Hey,” Roger says, as he steps into the room. “Do you want some help?”

Rafa doesn’t even stop to look at him. “No,” he replies. “Is fine.”

It very obviously isn’t but Roger keeps his mouth shut.

He sits down on the bed and rests his elbows on his knees, watching the traces of Rafa’s presence in the room disappear one by one. Soon Rafa will be gone and Roger will be left alone in the room with nothing but his memories to prove that this was real. That, for one week, they lived together and laughed and loved each other. That they existed. And, yeah, it wasn’t always happy but it was _good_.

Roger hates this. He hates that it has to end and in such a terrible manner. He hates that he has no idea when he’ll see Rafa next.

They never part without telling each other when they’ll next meet. It’s a small reassurance, a way to make the distance separating them more bearable. This time, of course, they can’t. Roger still feels compelled to try.

“Basel?” he asks.

“I gonna try,” Rafa answers. “But probably not.” He has stopped packing and is standing in front of his bags, face turned away from Roger. Yet, from the set of his shoulders, Roger can tell that he is hurting and doing his best to keep it together. Not for the first time, Roger wonders if this isn’t all too much. If he shouldn’t be a better person and let Rafa go.

“Raf’, please,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “Will you look at me?”

Rafa does. He looks, well. He looks okay, his features settled in that neutral expression he adopts when having to face an unpleasant question. At any other time, Roger would be annoyed that Rafa is giving him his best press conference face but he has enough sense left in him to understand that Rafa isn’t doing this only to protect himself but also to protect Roger. Because Roger has just won a final against him, the third in a row, and Rafa doesn’t want to take that away from him. What a fucking brave, stupid thing to do.

“You are not playing Paris.” It’s not a question.

“Not if I win Basel, no.” Roger rubs his temples. “So, London?”

“I gonna try,” Rafa repeats and Roger bends his head in silent agreement because he doesn’t think he could speak.

If Roger were a better person he wouldn’t want this so much. He wouldn’t have always wanted it, despite how mad it is, how impossible it sometimes feels. He wouldn’t have come back to Rafa again and again, even when this was supposed to be over, even when it was wounding them both, leaving them bruised and battered yet aching for more. But Roger isn’t and here they are. And, the thing is, Roger doesn’t regret any of it. Not a minute. Not a second.

Roger gets up and closes the distance between them. He pulls Rafa in his arms and holds him tight, as tight as he can without it becoming painful. Eventually, Rafa gives in. His shoulders slump and he exhales, something soft, something fragile, before burying his face into the crook of Roger’s neck.

“So,” Roger says, tone shaky. “This kind of sucks.”

Rafa lets out a startled laugh. At least, Roger can make him laugh. It’s a simple thing but not a small one.

“Yes. It sucks.”

“Good. I’m glad we agree on that.”

“London is in four weeks, no?”

“Yes. No time at all.”

Neither of them mentions the fact that Rafa may not be able to play there.

Rafa lifts his head up and when he looks at Roger, this time, his expression isn’t neutral. It’s gentle, almost vulnerable. _Hello,_ Roger thinks. _Here you are_.

Rafa presses his lips against Roger’s and Roger’s eyes flutter shut. It’s a desperate sort of kiss. Not because it’s urgent, full of tongues and teeth, but because it isn’t. It’s slow and unhurried, deliberately so, as if to prove that they are allowed to take their time, that time is not something they always have too little of, a commodity they must ration lest they run out of it. Nothing is solved and nothing is forgotten but they kiss, alone in the middle of their hotel room, on a Sunday afternoon.

In that moment, they are as ordinary as two people in love can be.

***

Rafa doesn’t play Basel and Roger doesn’t play Paris.

He calls Rafa as soon as he can, the weight of the trophy in his arms still fresh in his memory, the feeling of cool metal still lingering against his lips.

“Hey,” Rafa says. At the sound of his voice, Roger lets out a breath.

“Hey baby,” Roger answers. “How’s Paris?” He can’t find it in himself to ask, _how’s the knee_.

“Is fine. How is Basel?”

“Good. Great. I won.”

There is the barest hint of a pause on the other side of the line, because they both understand what Roger winning means. Then Rafa says,

“Congratulations. I am happy for you.”

His voice is warm and sincere and Roger knows he means it. It’s not hard to picture Rafa pacing in the corridor of an arena, like Roger is, or in his hotel room, curled in an armchair, relaxed and happy. In Roger’s mind, Rafa is smiling, his eyes crinkling. But words of praise are not why Roger is calling.

“So,” he starts.

“No Paris?” Rafa interrupts. As if it’ll be easier, if he’s the one saying it.

For a moment, Roger thinks, _fuck it_. So what if he’s so exhausted he almost made a mess of this final? He can go to Paris, lose to someone in round two and just stay there for a few days. Paris is closer to London than Basel and no one would make much of it. Except his team. And Mirka. And Rafa.

“No,” he says, “No Paris.” He hopes Rafa can’t discern the slight tremor in his voice. “I’m sorry, I wanted…” To hear you. To speak to you. To get a glimpse of you before London. Roger says none of that. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Thank you,” Rafa replies, tone soft.

“I have to go. We are still… I’ll still see you in London?”

There is a silence, as if Rafa needs to consider it. Roger’s heart is beating awfully fast in his chest. “Yes. See you in London.”

They say goodbye and Roger hangs up, watching Rafa’s name disappear from the screen before it turns black.

“Were you seriously considering going to Paris?”

Roger doesn’t drop his phone but it’s a close thing. Mirka is standing right in front of him, leaning against the opposite wall. He didn’t hear her come in.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” he repeats out loud.

“I noticed,” Mirka says, unfazed. “So, did you?”

“No,” he answers. “Of course not.”

It’s not a lie. Wanting to do something and seriously considering it are two very different things.

Mirka throws him an evaluating look before saying, “You should go. Everybody’s waiting for you.”

Right. Roger still has a long list of things to do before he can call it a day. Press and pizza with the ball kids and dinner with his family and his team. He puts his phone back in his pocket and smiles at her.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

*** 

Roger doesn’t play Paris which means he isn’t there to see Rafa put an end to his chances of finishing the year number one.

Which means he isn’t there to see Rafa limp on a green and grey court and win a match he should have retired from.

He remembers Rafa’s silence before saying, _see you in London_ , the way his own heart was beating so fast he feared it might burst out of his chest.

He thinks, _god_.

***

The good part about most of the players staying at the same hotel is that it makes some things much easier. Like not having to explain what Roger is doing here. People assume that he must have some business to conduct and it’s a relief, not having to wait for discreet private cars and entering or exiting through the back door every time he wants to see Rafa. He’ll have to do that, of course, but not tonight.

The bad part about most of the players staying at the same hotel is, well. The other players. And their teams. And the myriad of other people that gravitates around them. 

So, although Roger has been trying to get to Rafa’s room for the better part of an hour, he is somehow still stuck in the lobby. Everybody seems to have arrived in London while Roger was busy attempting to win an exhibition match in a kilt and now he can’t take a step without someone wanting to talk to him about one thing or the other – the amazing year he’s had, his chances of winning this tournament, his opinion on this and this and that. It would be _fine_ if Roger wasn’t desperate to at least say hello to Rafa before Rafa has to leave for the evening.

Roger casts a glance at his watch. He isn’t going to make it, not without doing something drastic. He gets his phone out of his pocket and interrupts the person who has been talking to him for the past fifteen minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Roger says, nodding toward his phone. “My wife has been calling me…”

He hates himself a little for not coming up with another excuse, any other excuse, but it works.

“Oh,” the guy exclaims – what is his name again? Roger is pretty sure he should remember it – “of course, I’m so sorry. Please give Mirka my best.”

Roger shakes his hand. “I will,” he assures him.

He puts his phone against his ear and strides toward the elevator which is, thank fucking god, empty. He texts Rafa, _I’m coming_ , while making his way through the corridors and, sure thing, the door opens a few seconds before he arrives in front of it. Roger lets himself in, closing the door behind him, and sighs in relief.

When he looks around the room, though, Rafa isn’t there. Instead, Maymo is standing in the middle of it.

“He asked me to wait for you,” Maymo says. At Roger’s confused expression, he adds, “You don’t have a card.”

“Oh, yes,” Roger gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

They exchange a few polite words but it’s awkward and neither of them wants to drag this on for any longer than necessary. So Maymo excuses himself and Roger is left alone in Rafa’s room. Where Rafa isn’t. Even though Roger has a card now it would be pointless to go all the way back to his hotel only to come back here later. He sits down on the bed.

He was so close to seeing Rafa again, to touching him that the renewed weight of his absence, coupled with the exhaustion running through Roger’s veins, feels like too much to bear. He lets his head fall against the mattress and takes his phone out again.

_Got the card_.

When Rafa doesn’t answer right away, he sends another text.

_I’m sorry I missed you_.

_You are still in my room?_

_Yes. On your bed, more specifically._

_Stay?_

And, well. Roger isn’t going to say no to that.

_Only if you send me a pic. I’m lonely._

He adds a variety of sad emojis to emphasize his point and can almost hear Rafa roll his eyes from where he is. Roger strips down to his boxers and slips under the covers before picking his phone back up. There is a single picture of Rafa waiting for him. He’s wearing a blue shirt, the colour bolder than the ones he usually wears at formal events and he is so so lovely.

_You are staying then?_ Rafa asks, as Roger curls on one side, his cheek against the pillow.

_Yes_ , he answers. As if it was ever in doubt. _I am._

***

Roger is woken up by the feeling of a warm body curling around his. One hand comes to rest against Roger’s waist while another sneaks around Roger’s torso and settles on his chest. The hands are warm too. And the body pressed against his is very naked. Soft, soft lips brush against his neck and Roger lets out a shaky breath, relaxing in Rafa’s embrace.

“You didn’t keep your shirt on,” Roger mumbles. He’s not quite awake and this seems like an important thing to say. “I liked it.”

Rafa laughs. “You like me better with the shirt?”

That’s a good question. On one hand, Rafa in a shirt, a shirt Roger can divest him from. On the other hand, Rafa naked. Now that Roger is thinking about it, it isn’t much of a dilemma. Or maybe he’s more awake.

“No,” he says, turning around so that they are face to face. “Naked is good, actually. You should stay naked forever.”

“Naked is not very good for playing tennis.”

“Well. Did you _try_?”

They last – Roger counts – one, two, three, four seconds before bursting into laughter.

“No,” Rafa hiccups. “I did not try.” 

“Maybe one day.” Roger pushes back a small lock of Rafa’s hair and traces the wrinkles on Rafa’s forehead with the tip of his fingers, then the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, then his dimples. His fingers reach Rafa’s lips and they part under Roger’s touch. “Hello,” Roger says, before kissing Rafa. Rafa’s lips part a bit more and Roger cups his jaw, tilting his head back, deepening the kiss. He doesn’t really intend for it to go anywhere, to mean anything else but this: _hello, I missed you_.

“Hello,” Rafa replies, breaking the kiss. “Sorry I wake you.”

“It’s fine,” Roger says, which is something of a euphemism.

Roger’s stomach rumbles, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Right. He didn’t have dinner. 

“Do you mind if we order room service? I’m starving.”

“You did not eat?”

“Hmm no,” Roger says. “I kind of slept all evening.”

“Okay,” Rafa agrees, looking the slightest bit dejected. Roger would feel bad about making him leave the bed if he wasn’t afraid of passing out.

Rafa gets up, putting on some underwear and a t-shirt and Roger follows his lead, grabbing the pair of trousers he left on the floor earlier. He can’t find his t-shirt though and he’s about to ask Rafa who is examining the menu if he’s seen it when he realises that he’s the one wearing it.

It’s nothing. Nothing that hasn’t happened before. Nothing but a stupid Nike shirt, one Roger isn’t even that fond of. Yet, it sparks something inside Roger’s chest, something like longing, something like the desire for the entire world to see Rafa like this, half-naked in the middle of the night, hair dishevelled, lips still wet from Roger’s kisses. To see Rafa for who he is – not someone who belongs next to a beautiful woman, but next to Roger. The thing is, there was a time when the world almost did.

“Roger?” he hears Rafa say and he makes a conscious effort to swallow the words stinging his tongue.

“Yes?”

“Eggs okay?”

“Yes,” he says, with a smile. “Eggs are perfect.”

When Roger’s food arrives, they decide to settle on the sofa. They talk or, more exactly, Rafa talks as Roger eats, content to listen to him. Roger wasn’t sure what to expect before coming to London but Rafa looks happy. So much, in fact, that it’s radiating from him, a nearly tangible thing. Still, Roger has to ask.

“Are you…?”

Rafa shakes his head, not letting him finish. “We see next week, no?” Roger can discern Rafa’s silent prayer beneath the casual tone. _Please. Please._

“Yeah,” Roger says. He puts his plate down on the coffee table in front of them and turns back toward Rafa. He squeezes Rafa’s thigh, a few inches above his knee. “Of course.”

If it’s the only thing Roger can give Rafa then he will.

A respite.

***

For five days, Rafa continues to be happy and so does Roger.

He banishes from his mind the memories of Shanghai, of the fragile weeks that followed it and he lets himself enjoy it. A year ago, everything was uncertain, his vision of the future clouded and now here he is. In London. With Rafa. Which is more or less the gist of the speech he gives after receiving his award at the players’ party. He locks eyes with Rafa while saying, _this feels like I share it with_ _Rafa_ , and Rafa _smiles_ and, for one moment, Roger manages to recapture the feeling that has been haunting him for two months. The curious gazes that usually follow them whenever they’re by each other’s side do nothing to quench his buoyant mood, quite the contrary.

It goes on like this. During the days, they go through the things they have to do – training and giving interviews and attending various events and functions that make up a consequential part of their schedules. During the nights, they find themselves alone and Roger gorges on Rafa’s happiness.

There’s always been something special about it. It’s not just that it seems to burst out of him and wrap itself around those who are the closest to him, it’s that it’s savoured. Rafa is happy the way someone who has earned their happiness and knows exactly what they’ve had to sacrifice for it would be. It’s a rare quality, one that Roger has envied at times. Now, though, he is content to revel in it and it’s a heady thing, the headiest part being that Roger is aware he has something to do with it.

The sole incident occurs after Roger’s first match. He can’t be there for Rafa’s trophy presentation which is fine: this is Rafa’s moment anyway and it’s not like Roger hasn’t already congratulated him. What he resents, though, is the implication that he might not be aware of how important this is. The sky journalist who asks him if he minds waiting for the trophy presentation to be over before finishing his interview has no way of knowing that they’ve struck a nerve but it doesn’t prevent Roger from getting annoyed. So much, in fact, that he recounts the whole thing during his press conference as soon as someone gives him the opportunity.

He does it less because he wants to _push_ and more because he wants to make it clear that although yes, finishing the year number one is something he’d like to have achieved there isn’t any lingering bitterness or resentment. He understands, better than anyone present in this room, the price Rafa paid for it.

Later, Roger congratulates Rafa one more time with words and without them, with his hands and his mouth on Rafa’s body, and pretends that he can’t sense the unrest beginning to stir again in his chest.

Then, on a Monday evening, the respite comes to an end.

***

It’s a bit like watching a movie you already know ends badly, yet you find yourself hoping, against all reason, that it will be different this time. That maybe if you sit through the entirety of it and commit to it, you will be able to change the outcome by the sheer strength of your will, even though you know very well it never works. Or so Roger supposes, he isn’t big on watching movies that end badly. What he has watched, though, is this happening way too many times.

Rafa is on a tennis court and he is hurting and there is nothing Roger can do about it, except wish for it to be over as soon as possible. He is nothing but a nameless spectator in a hotel room. When Rafa doesn’t retire after winning the second set, Roger considers turning the whole thing off and going outside for a walk. But he can’t. There is, lingering against his skin, burning at the back of his throat, the echo of Rafa’s silence. So Roger sits still and watches.

The minute it’s over he turns the TV off and opens the nearest window, leaning against the ledge. The cool air of a November night in London is something of a slap against his skin and Roger stays like this, trying to breathe, breathe, breathe – past the sadness, past the sorrow, past the _guilt_.

Somehow, it doesn’t quite work.

He closes the window and curls up in the armchair facing the entrance, waiting for Rafa to come back. At some point, a notification informs him that Rafa has officially withdrawn from the tournament and he stares at it for a long time before putting his phone away, leaving his messages and phone calls unanswered.

It must be late into the night when Rafa walks through the door.

“How are you?” Roger asks. It’s a stupid question and he winces as the words come out of his mouth but Rafa only shrugs. 

“Tired.”

He limps toward the bed before sitting down on it. He takes the same sort of care with his movements as an old man would and if Roger’s heart hadn’t already been shattered a mere hours ago it would break now.

“Are you…” Roger inhales. “How bad is it?”

“It hurts. A lot.” The quiet admission is more than enough.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can come here? Please.”

And yes, Roger can do that. He crosses the room and climbs on the bed, settling behind Rafa. He pulls him in his arms and Rafa doesn’t resist. He lets himself be held, his back against Roger’s chest. Roger kisses his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish…”

He wishes that things were different. Or, maybe not different, but simpler. Easier. That he didn’t have to wait in the obscurity of a hotel room when Rafa is hurting. That Rafa didn’t have to hurt in the first place. That Roger’s mind wasn’t already formulating appropriate answers to the inevitable questions about Rafa’s injury that await him tomorrow. That, for a moment, they could be transported in another world where Roger would be able to kiss Rafa in broad daylight, the sun caressing Rafa’s skin the way it was always meant to be, everything around them illuminated.

There is no way for him to say any of that without breaking something between them, though. Something like the hope that one day, maybe.

“I love you,” he says instead. It sounds a bit like a defeat.

“I love you too,” Rafa says and Roger knows that, he does. They wouldn’t be here if Rafa didn’t.

“Do you want… Do you want to go to bed? When is your flight tomorrow?”

“There is no flight.”

“Sorry?”

“There is no flight,” Rafa repeats. Then, to make sure Roger is truly getting this, “I am not leaving.”

“But your knee… Don’t you need to go see your doctor?”

“He is coming here,” Rafa says. “I asked him.”

Roger is pretty sure this is what drowning must feel like. Every time he opens his mouth, expecting to get some fresh air to fill his lungs he swallows another mouthful of water, he finds himself pushed further down from the surface and god, he is suffocating.

“This was the plan, no?” Rafa adds.

“Yes,” Roger answers. Yes, it was.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Rafa says. “I am sure.” His voice is clear and strong, as if to dispel any doubt that he might not mean it. If there’s something Roger never doubts, though, it’s Rafa’s ability to make up his mind.

There is a point when it stops being about drowning and, instead, becomes about surrendering.

Roger loosens his embrace and gets off the bed. He takes one step to come stand in front of Rafa before crouching between Rafa’s parted legs. There are no words for what Roger wants to express and so he doesn’t speak. In truth, he doesn’t think he could. His hands grip the hem of Rafa’s sweatshirt and begin to remove it – gentle, careful. Rafa lifts up his arms to help Roger and Roger puts it down on the bed. He does the same thing with Rafa’s shirt, leaving him naked from the waist up. His movements seem to be infused with a force he recognizes, one he’s only ever felt a few times in his life, and never outside of a tennis court. A sense of purpose overcoming his body and his mind, both acting in perfect unison, while the rest of the world fades away. 

Roger pauses, his fingers above the waistband of Rafa’s sweatpants, and adjusts his position so that he’s kneeling now. Everything is very still, the silence in the room only broken by their uneven breaths. The scattered beatings of their hearts.

Then, Roger removes the sweatpants too until Rafa is left in nothing but his underwear. Roger doesn’t bother with them. This isn’t about sex or lust. It is not even about love. Roger’s throat is tight but his hands don’t shake as he puts them on each side of Rafa’s legs. From where he is, Roger can’t see anything wrong with Rafa’s body, it’s as perfect to him as it’s ever been. But he knows it’s a lie, an illusion of strength and power that can crumble at any time. That has.

Roger can’t offer Rafa a new body and he can’t offer him a way to ease the pain. He can’t offer Rafa kisses in broad daylight and he can’t offer him declarations of love in a press conference room. He can merely toy with the line, poking at it, entertaining the idea of how little it would take to cross it. Roger can’t even offer Rafa most of his time.

Roger presses one kiss against Rafa’s right knee. Rafa shudders but Roger isn’t done. One kiss against Rafa’s left knee, the skin bare and tender under his lips.

What Roger can offer Rafa is this: one single, unaltered proof of his devotion.

***

On Tuesday, Roger qualifies for the semis. It’s not his best match but the circumstances are what they are and he is just glad that he doesn’t have to worry too much about Thursday’s one. He goes through the usual post-match press routine and, thankfully, the sole mention of Rafa’s retirement comes along with a more general question.

It’s late, when he gets back to Rafa’s. He’s supposed to move back to his own hotel the next day and he needs to pack the clothes that have migrated to Rafa’s room but he’s too tired to bother.

They fall into bed and, despite Roger’s exhaustion, they take their time, kissing and kissing and kissing, exploring the other’s body as if it were the first time, as if it were the last. It’s neither of those things but it’s sometimes hard to remember that, hard not to get overwhelmed by how much is stacked against them.

So maybe they cling to each other a bit more than usual and maybe Roger’s _I love yous_ are a bit more feverish than he intends them to be and maybe, after, Roger does his best not to let any tears fall. There are a lot of things Roger doesn’t mind crying about but he can’t cry about this. If he started, he’s not sure he would be able stop.

On Wednesday, Mirka and the kids arrive while Roger is busy tidying his things away. He kisses Mirka hello as Lenny attaches himself to his leg and Roger exhales. He relegates to a corner of his mind the events of the past few days and focuses on this: the sounds of suitcases being opened, the nearly indistinguishable chatter of four children all trying to talk to him at the same time, the laughter of his wife.

In the afternoon, they go to Kensington palace and when they step out of the car bringing them back to their hotel he hears the distinct noises of photographs being taken. Soon enough, those will be all over the tabloids and newspapers, a tiny parcel of his life immortalized yet one branded as an insight into who he truly is. And it’s all part of the game, Roger is aware of it, but tonight he can’t help but resent the fact that what they’re taking pictures of is the acceptable version of him.

He hurries past Mirka to get inside the hotel.

On Thursday, Roger loses a set again and although he ends up winning the match he senses that he’s teetering on the edge of _something_. He wonders if the time has come for him to fall off his tight rope, for his hands to fail to catch one of the many balls he’s tossed in the air. It doesn’t help that the journalists are still asking him about Rafa, Rafa whom he hasn’t seen since Wednesday morning. Since yesterday. This is stupid.

“This is stupid,” he repeats out loud, later in the afternoon, on the phone with Rafa. “You stayed for… You stayed and we can barely see each other.”

“What you want me to do?” Rafa asks.

“Move hotels. I can book a room under whatever name you want and it’s not like it would change anything for you, would it?” He’s rambling. “Move hotels.”

It’s a selfish thing to ask, maybe, but Roger doesn’t feel selfish while asking it. He feels desperate, like this is his last shot at keeping things under control and if Rafa says no, if he says no…

“Your family?” By which he means Mirka.

“Mirka is fine with it.” At least, that’s what she answered when he asked. It’s hard to tell if she agreed because she truly doesn’t mind or because she understands that Roger needs this but Roger isn’t going to complain. He’ll make it up to her later. “And you know the kids would love to catch a glimpse of you.”

“Okay,” Rafa agrees.

And Roger’s foot lands on the tightrope in front of him, and the ball falls back in his open palm.

“Okay,” Roger breathes. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Yes. Later.”

On Friday, so early it might still be Thursday, Roger slips out of his room and goes to join Rafa in his. Rafa opens the door, stifling a yawn and it’s pretty obvious that Roger woke him up. It’s a wordless kind of night: Roger follows Rafa back to his bed and they both get under the covers. Roger entangles their legs and their fingers and Rafa’s eyelids flutter once, twice, before closing. He lets out a contented sigh and, in a matter of minutes, he’s asleep again. It’s more than fine. Rafa’s body against his is solid and warm, a tangible thing Roger can hold onto and he thinks, _this is real_.

Later that day, long after Roger has gone back to his room, there is a knock on the door. This time it’s Roger’s turn to welcome Rafa inside, Rafa who is looking hesitant and unsure but whose face brightens as soon as he spots the kids playing in the living room. He kisses the corner of Roger’s mouth, something so brief and fleeting Roger might have imagined it and whispers, _I am not staying long_. Roger gives him one smile, a mix between acquiescence and gratitude, and watches as Rafa moves toward the kids. There are screams and laughs when they see him and Rafa perches himself on the sofa as they surround him. Roger keeps his eyes fixed on his two realities momentarily merging together, his heart aching for irreconcilable things. 

On Saturday, Roger loses.

***

Roger can’t say he’s happy about losing the match but he also can’t say he’s surprised. What he is, mostly, is exhausted. It’s been a long season and the past few months have left him feeling unsettled and raw, his state of mind more fragile than it’s been in years and he needs to get away from it all for a short while. It would be fine, if it didn’t also mean saying goodbye to Rafa.

It’s not as awful as Shanghai but it’s a close thing.

“Sorry I made you move for two nights,” Roger says, with a small laugh. They’re sitting on the sofa, waiting for Rafa’s car to arrive. Rafa’s bags are all packed and lined up near the door. He’s ready to leave.

Rafa half-smiles, half-shrugs. “Two nights, three. Is the same, no?”

“Yes, well. Except for the title, you know?” He’s aiming at funny and light but it falls flat, as if their pretence that everything is fine, that this isn’t kind of heartbreaking could only last so long.

“Roger…” Rafa hesitates. “You are okay?”

He isn’t talking about the match and Roger does his best not to flinch.

Roger could answer no. It’s just one word. Not even one word, one syllable. Except that saying _no_ wouldn’t be enough, would it? Rafa would want to know why and Roger would have to explain and nothing good would come out of it. Instead he says,

“Yes,” Then, because he doesn’t want to lie, “I will be.”

He’s not sure Rafa believes him but Rafa nods before glancing at his phone.

“The car is gonna be here in ten minutes. I need to go.”

“Right,” Roger says. They get up and cross the room, coming to a halt next to Rafa’s bags. Rafa takes his card out of his pocket and hands it to Roger.

“You take care of it?”

“Yes,” Roger answers. He covers Rafa’s hand with his own, the card trapped between their pressed palms, the edge of it digging in Roger’s flesh. It’s a bit uncomfortable but he doesn’t care.

Rafa’s free hand grabs the nape of Roger’s neck and they share one last kiss. It’s quick and unsatisfactory and sometimes goodbyes are like this, no matter how hard you try to make them easier to bear everything ends up being awkward and painful and not nearly enough.

“I might be able to get away for a couple of days in December,” Roger whispers against Rafa’s ear.

“Okay,” Rafa says. He feels Rafa’s lips against his cheekbone, then against his jaw. “Tell me.”

Then Rafa takes a step back, breaking their embrace and Roger wishes he could shut his eyes and not watch Rafa leave again but Rafa deserves better. So Roger watches as Rafa opens the door, his mouth set in the harsh line that’s his default expression when he doesn’t want to do something yet doesn’t believe he has a choice. He watches as the door closes behind Rafa, his silhouette vanishing from Roger’s sight, and he continues watching long after Rafa is gone, the only remnants of his presence a card in Roger’s hand and the phantom memory of his lips against Roger’s skin.

***

At the end of November, Rafa goes to the Bahamas and Roger goes to the Maldives. They are exactly 15 543 kilometres, two oceans, and a continent apart. According to Roger’s research, the fastest bird in the world can reach speeds of 170 kilometres an hour in horizontal flight, which means that if Roger were a bird, and provided he didn’t rest, it would take him around 91 days to fly from one island to the other. The fact that he isn’t a bird and does have a private jet seems like a moot point. It doesn’t abolish the distance. Those idle calculations, however, kind of make it more tolerable.

That and the hot sand beneath his feet and the crystal-clear waters always within sight. And his daughter’s melodious voice.

“You _promised_ you would help me build a sandcastle,” Myla says in a tone that doesn’t bode well for Roger’s survival of her teenage years.

Roger has no memory of ever promising that but he cautiously doesn’t point it out. “Who is helping Charlene if I’m helping you?”

“Mum,” she replies. Which makes sense.

“And who is supposed to watch over your brothers?” he asks. As far as he knows, they gave the nanny her afternoon off.

“They can help too. I’m picking Leo for our team.”

“Our team?” Roger wonders.

“It’s a competition,” Myla explains before grabbing his wrist, determined to drag him to the area of the beach where they have elected to hold their sandcastle building competition. On their way there, she tells him all about sandcastle competitions which apparently aren’t just the product of his daughters’ imagination but a real thing. He resolves to google it later. When they arrive, Mirka, Charlene and the boys are already there, standing in front of what can only be qualified as a proper arsenal of tools: buckets and shovels and even a plastic trowel. Where did they find this? He tries to hide his puzzlement but, considering the amused look Mirka gives him, he mustn’t be doing a very good job.

“So,” he asks. “How does it work?”

“We have one hour to build the best sandcastle,” Charlene informs him.

“And who will be judging our sandcastles?”

The girls exchange a glance and Roger gathers that they didn’t think this through.

“Never mind,” he says. “We can think about this later.”

He bends down to retrieve a bucket and so they start. Or Roger, Mirka, Myla and Charlene start. The boys stay right where they are, watching them.

It becomes clear, a few minutes into the competition, that Roger isn’t the mastermind here. In fact, he is little more than an apprentice: they’re completing Myla’s vision. He does what he’s told to do – running toward the sea to get some water to wet the sand so that their castle won’t crumble, trying to give a shape to their now wet sand so that it turns into something approximating a castle, running again to get some more water because the sand is drying – and at the end of the hour Roger is fucking _exhausted_. He lies down on the sand, gulping for air. Now he gets why there are international competitions.

“So,” he says, refusing to get up. “How do we determine who won?”

“We did,” Mirka answers. “Our castle has more towers.”

Roger sits up. “Hey, no. No one ever said that the number of towers would be a judging criterion. Our castle is clearly, hmm, firmer. In case of an attack, we would definitely have a better chance, you know?” 

Roger and Mirka briefly lock eyes then turn toward the girls, expectant.  Myla and Charlene don’t even share a look before saying together, “We both win.”

_Fine_.

Roger gets back up to search for their discarded tools. “You should go ahead with the kids,” he tells Mirka. “I’ll clean up behind us.”

“Sure,” she agrees. She picks up Lenny in her arms. “Come on,” she says. “Time for dinner.”

Roger goes back to his tool-gathering and it takes him a few minutes to realise that Myla is still there.

“You’re not going back with your mother?”

She shrugs, staring at the result of their hard work. “It’s sad,” she says.

“What is?” He asks, keeping his voice soft. She seems a bit melancholic and he doesn’t want her to be sad.

“When we come back tomorrow it will be gone. Like…”

“Like it never existed at all?”

“Yes,” she says, even sadder now.

Roger crouches in front of her, pushing back a lock of her hair. “Hey, it’s fine. The important thing is that you remember it existed, don’t you think? And I’ll remember it too. And your sister, and your brothers, and mum, they will all remember it.”

But children are relentless. “It will still be gone.”

Roger pulls her in his arms. “Well,” he begins, attempting to find something, anything to comfort her. “We can always build a new one. A bigger one.”

 That seems to do it.

“Bigger?”

“Sure. Do you think this is the best I can do? Give me a week and we’re entering those international competitions. We’re going to win the Olympics.”

She laughs, starting to squirm to escape his embrace. He lets her go.

“That’s not a thing,” she says.

“I’ll make it a thing,” he promises, before getting back on his feet. “Come on, let’s go have dinner. Aren’t you hungry?” He holds his hand out, the tools secured in his other one.

She takes his offered hand.  “Yes,” she says. “I am.”

They start walking back to the house, hand in hand, and maybe there are two kinds of children, Roger thinks. The ones who hope that they’ll come back the next day to see that their sandcastle is still there, that it has somehow managed to withstand the assaults of the waves and the wind. And then there are those who would rather destroy their own work, than see nature do it for them. Roger knows what kind of child he was, knows that he belongs in the second category, although he’s spent the better part of his adult life trying to mould himself into someone that would fit into the first one.

But he still feels the impulse, at times, that maddening, almost irrepressible desire to break something, to destroy. Sometimes it’s a racket while standing on a tennis court, sometimes the perfect image he has painstakingly put together over the years while sitting in a room full of journalists.

It’s not a happy feeling and, in that, he is very glad his daughter isn’t like him.

***

They end up not building a bigger sandcastle. In fact, they end up not building any more. The next day, the girls have found something else to get passionate about and that’s another thing about children, their infinite capacity to hurt over the smallest things and then forget all about them. Adults don’t have that luxury.

_Would you be my partner if I decided to enter the sandcastle building Olympic team?_

_You are becoming a Spaniard?_ Rafa texts back.

Roger should have seen this one coming.

_Hypothetically_

_Are you good?_

Roger sends him a picture of his masterpiece. The reply comes immediately.

_No._

Well. So much for Roger’s dreams of becoming a sandcastle sculptor, which appears to be the appropriate term for it. He’s about to put his phone back next to him and enjoy the rest of his afternoon sunbathing when another text arrives.

_I am still seeing you in December?_

There are four different tabs open on Roger’s phone, all the result of his most recent google searches. One of them is about international sandcastle competitions. The other three are, in no particular order: about the distance between the Bahamas and the Maldives, about the fastest bird in the world, about secluded villas in Greece.

_Yes_ , he answers, ignoring the fact that he hasn’t talked to Mirka about this yet. It’s not Rafa’s concern anyway. _If you can._

_I can._

***

The evening before they’re supposed to fly back to Dubai, he tells Mirka. He’s waited this long not because he’s afraid of how this is going to go but because he wanted them to have this one week alone as a family, rare as it is. And maybe, yes, he’s sort of uncertain about how she’ll react. It’s been nearly a month since London, two since Shanghai and even though he’d like to say that he’s doing better, that he has this thing under control, it wouldn’t be true.

The kids are already sound asleep or so Roger chooses to convince himself and their suitcases are almost all packed. The only thing missing is the boys’ stuffed animals, Mrs Fifteen and Mrs Love, and they’ve been searching for them for a good half hour now. Well Mirka has been searching for them. Roger has finished what was left of last night’s bottle of wine and is currently contemplating opening a new one.

“You know,  I’m pretty sure I last saw them somewhere near the fridge. Maybe they were hungry.”

She doesn’t even bother stopping to glare at him. Right, another bottle of wine it is.

“Do you want some wine?”

“Yes, please.”

Roger pours them two rather generous glasses. “You can have yours if you want.”

“Can you put it on the kitchen counter? I need to finish checking this area first.”

Roger does and leans back against the counter. From there, he has a clear view of the living room, which is looking as pristine as it was when they first arrived, no stuffed animals within sight. He raises his glass to his lips and takes one sip.

“I might go away for a few days, around mid-December.”

At that she stops. “Might?”

Another sip. “Will. It’s not… It shouldn’t interfere with my training.” Which is not the point at all but she’s kind enough not to say so out loud.

“Right,” she sighs, starting to walk in his direction. For a moment, he believes she might want to reach out for him and he takes a step toward her but she continues walking past him and her fingers close on the glass of wine he put on the counter a few minutes ago. She swallows one mouthful and grimaces.

“Is this sauvignon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a bit dry.”

“Do you want something else?” he asks.

“No, it’s fine. Anyway,  I probably shouldn’t get drunk before finding Mrs Fifteen and Mrs Love.”

“I can help,” he offers, but she throws him a look that plainly says, _you can’t_. He shrugs, a gesture between surrender and defeat. He should add something, something like _I’m sorry_ , something like, _I don’t have to go_. He can’t find the strength in himself to utter either of those things. He is sorry but, although he doesn’t have to go, he needs to. So he stays where he is, unmoving, watching her as she goes back to searching for their children’s toys.

They don’t talk about it, not really. There are good reasons for that, the main one being that it wouldn’t work anymore if they did, if they ever voiced out loud the fact that this isn’t _enough_ for him. But it makes it hard for him to assume anything about what she might or might not think. Most of the time, he believes she had never imagined it would last so long. That it was, in part, why she had agreed to it. He doesn’t blame her. He had never imagined it would last that long too. And, the thing is, it shouldn’t have.

_Is it mad_? Roger wants to ask, standing very still in the middle of a kitchen that isn’t his. _Tell me. Is it mad?_

Of course, he can’t ask this.

He stares at Mirka’s discarded glass, at the bottle they won’t finish. It was a stupid idea. He takes hold of the bottle and opens the fridge, ready to put it away. Mrs Fifteen and Mrs Love stare right back at him. Roger can’t help it, he laughs.

“What is it?” Mirka asks, tone a bit worried.

“You can stop searching,” he manages to say between two bursts of laughter. “I found them.”

He hears the distinct sound of her footsteps approaching and a hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“How on earth did they end up here?”

Roger shakes his head. “I have no idea. But I was right about seeing them near the fridge.”

They share a glance and it takes a real effort not to start laughing again at her baffled expression.

“Come on,” he says, sliding his fingers around her waist. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

***

It’s only later, in bed, that they talk about it again.

“If this isn’t working anymore, you need to tell me. You know that, right?”

He can’t say he’s surprised to hear her say it but having expected those words doesn’t help. He draws a breath, tilting his head toward her to catch her gaze. The way she looks back at him is harsh, unflinching.

“I know.”

She nods, kissing his cheek and switching the light off. Then she turns on the other side, leaving him lying on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Is it mad _?_ Is it mad to want something so much and for so long, to think that you will never stop wanting it? That you would do anything to keep it – turn into a bird and fly for thousands of kilometers, break all the rules in the book, find a way to build a sandcastle that neither the waves nor the wind could ever erase?

Roger doesn’t know. There’s one thing, though, one thing he is sure of. Every time he went back to Rafa after yet another definitive break up, every time Rafa came back to him, it wasn’t guilt, or shame, or fear, Roger had felt. It was something not unlike what you must feel when reaching the top of a mountain and turning your face toward a sky devoid of any cloud and believing, for one moment, that you might get to disappear into it. Or maybe not unlike what you must feel after having spent days walking on a frozen glacier, the ice beneath your feet and the sky above your head melding into one, continuous shade of pale blue, and thinking that it wouldn’t take much for the edges of your body to blur and vanish into nothing.

Like he was back where he belonged. Like everything made sense. Like he could stop fighting.

***

Roger didn’t choose the villa for the view but he has to admit that it’s breathtaking. Everywhere he looks there is the sea and endless, brilliant blue. Despite having spent most of his life travelling all around the world, staying in the most beautiful places it could offer, Roger thinks that there is nothing quite like laying your eyes on the Mediterranean on a winter morning, the sky pierced with a translucent kind of light that exists nowhere else. He inhales, taking in the perfumes of the South, something heady and primordial, dry earth and pine trees, and smiles.

Rafa arrives a bit before noon. Roger has already tried the pool, decided that it was too cold to stay in it for long, and is now lounging on a chair, making a pretence of reading a book but truly checking his phone every other minute. When he hears the sound of a car stopping in front of the villa, he drops the book on the floor and gets up. _Finally_.

Then Rafa appears and he’s very tanned and very bright and very beautiful and Roger doesn’t care at all if he’s mad for wanting this. He doesn’t give a fuck. He strides toward Rafa and pulls him in his arms, holding him, waiting for Rafa to return his embrace. But Rafa doesn’t.

Roger takes a step back, his hands on Rafa’s elbows, and Rafa turns his head away from Roger just a little. The gesture would have been imperceptible for anyone who didn’t know him as well as Roger does and Roger’s heart sinks.

“What is it?” he asks.

Rafa shrugs in response, still refusing to look back at Roger. Instead, his gaze appears to be fixed on the villa adjacent to theirs and, _oh. Oh_.

“There’s no one there,” Roger lets out, tone sharper than intended. He shouldn’t be mad at Rafa, not for this. It’s not Rafa’s fault if he’s learned a bit too well how it works, how to always check around in case there should be curious gazes ready to catch them standing a bit too close. And, in truth, it’s not like Roger doesn’t see them, the invisible scars on Rafa’s skin left by years of being right in the middle of the public eye. It’s not like he doesn’t understand why Rafa’s monotonous tone and evasive answers have become his trademark. _I miss you_ , Roger sometimes wants to say but it would be a rather callous remark, wouldn’t it? After all, Rafa so rarely gets more than a few days of rest away from it all, a few days without having to take pictures and selfies and smile, and smile, and smile. Softer, Roger repeats, “There’s no one there.”

“You are sure?”

“Yeah,” Roger answers. “I made sure of it.” What he did was renting the other villa too but telling Rafa that would be too much like giving up. Roger’s never been good at that.

“Okay.”

“So, you know,” Roger says, in an attempt to lighten the mood, “we might get to try this playing tennis naked thing.”

Rafa barks out a laugh and isn’t it a lovely, wondrous thing? “There is a court?” he asks.

“No,” Roger says. “But I can draw one. Probably.”

At that Rafa smiles and it’s Roger’s favourite smile, the one that says, _I can’t believe you exist_. 

“So,” Roger starts. “I can kiss you now, right?”

“Yes,” Rafa exhales.

Roger lets go of Rafa’s elbows to cup his jaw instead and it’s not a gentle _hello how are you_ kind of kiss, it’s a needy kiss, a _hello do you even know how much I missed you_ kiss. Rafa’s lips are pliant under Roger’s and he doesn’t seem to be able to stop the whimpers that he keeps letting out and Roger thinks, _it’s fine,_ he thinks, _you can_. It’s not quite like Roger’s fantasies, they aren’t surrounded by people and noises, they aren’t standing in the middle of a crowded plaza in Rome, they aren’t sitting in a busy café in Paris, they’re all alone. But they’re kissing outside of the confining walls of a hotel room, under the light of a beautiful day and it’s close enough.

Rafa pushes their bodies together, his hands clutching Roger’s shirt, a bit desperate, and Roger can feel how hard he is. A myriad of possibilities unfurls so suddenly in Roger’s mind that he is almost faint with it. His hands slide down until they reach Rafa’s belt and Roger mumbles between two kisses, “Let me, please… Can I?”

“Yes,” Rafa says. “Yes.”

Roger’s mouth abandons Rafa’s lips for his neck, leaving a trail of warm, bruising kisses on Rafa’s skin, as his fingers deal with Rafa’s belt and try opening the fly of his jeans. It’s not that easy and why isn’t he wearing sweatpants when it would be much more practical for Roger? Scratch that, why is he wearing anything at all?  And then, _then_ , Roger finally manages to open Rafa’s jeans and slips his hands inside Rafa’s pants, fingers closing on Rafa’s cock. Roger stops, tilting his head back to stare at Rafa.

His face is flushed, a deep red colouring his cheekbones, his eyes half-shut.

“Can I?” Roger asks again and Rafa nods.

Roger’s hand starts moving, slow and deliberate, the way he knows Rafa likes it and if he thought the view was breathtaking earlier he was oh so wrong. This, Rafa’s cock warm under his palm, Rafa’s sighs against Roger’s lips, nothing but the sea surrounding them, this is breathtaking and Roger keeps his own eyes wide-open, drinking in the sight, refusing to miss a moment of it, not a single second. Rafa’s breath gets heavier, more laboured and Roger can tell that he’s close and he kisses him again, pushing his tongue inside Rafa’s mouth without any thought for finesse or delicacy. Rafa comes like this, with Roger’s hand on him and Roger’s tongue in him and something inside Roger’s mind he wasn’t aware existed breaks. Everything goes white.

When Roger comes back to himself, they’re still out and the sun is still shining and Rafa is holding him.

“Okay?” Rafa asks. The question keeps coming up these days and Roger has long stopped thinking about his answer.

“Yes,” he says. He glances down at his hands that have settled on Rafa’s hip bones. His fingers are sticky and Rafa’s fly is open and they’re both something of a mess. Roger looks back up, grimacing. “Shower?”

Rafa’s gaze follows the same path and he scrunches his nose. “Yes,” he agrees. “Shower.”

***

During the shower, it’s Rafa’s turn to put his hands on Roger’s body, to make him whimper and sigh and moan and Roger welcomes the waves of pleasure, letting go.

After the shower, they go back outside. They can’t spend the day swimming and they can’t leave the villa to go do some exploring but it doesn’t matter. They improvise a picnic with the food they find in the fridge and settle near the pool. Roger eats some weirdly-shaped fruits he doesn’t remember the name of and tries to convince Rafa to do the same but to no avail. They talk; Rafa about his holidays, his latest golfing exploits and his current projects for his academy and Roger about his own holidays, the birth and death of his sandcastle sculpting career and a new shoe design he’s very excited about. The topic of Rafa’s knee only comes up once during the conversation, to say that the recovery is going a bit slower than expected but that it should be fine for Australia and Roger doesn’t push for more information. He nods, visions of him kissing Rafa’s knees flickering at the edge of his memory.

It’s an ordinary afternoon, the kind that you can’t really describe because nothing happens. And it’s because nothing happens that Roger loves it so. It’s so rare for them to find time together that isn’t in some way linked to tennis. There is always, in the background, a tournament to be played, or an exhibition or, if none of those things, then something to promote. Roger catches himself hoping that it will never end, although he knows it must.

When the sun starts setting they move back inside the house and cook dinner together, something more substantial than what they had in the afternoon. Which means pasta, because their joined cooking abilities don’t extend beyond that. They eat at the kitchen table, their feet entangled underneath and, somehow, it feels like one of the most intimate things they’ve ever done.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Roger asks, putting his fork down. The person who did the grocery shopping for them bought _samali_ for dessert and Roger is currently regretting finishing the whole thing. On the other side of the table, Rafa doesn’t look like he’s dealing with it much better.

“Yes,” Rafa says. “Good idea.” Then, his face brightens and, oh god. “We can watch the end of Gladiator, no?”

“We could. Or we could watch something that doesn’t end in tears.”

Rafa laughs and stands up, seemingly infused with a new sense of purpose. How does he do it? Roger is on the brink of death. “No, we watch the end of the movie. You see, is not that bad.”

Roger wants to point out that he’s already seen it once and that it is that bad but he can’t bring himself to. “Okay,” he concedes, raising his hands in defeat. “But you’re not allowed to make fun of me if I cry.”

Rafa gives him a baffled look. “You also cry at happy movies.”

Roger shrugs because, well, Rafa is right, and settles on the sofa, making himself comfortable. Rafa sits down next to him, frowning at the TV remote. While waiting for him to find the movie, Roger stares through the window. Outside, everything is pitch black, the sky almost indistinguishable from the sea. All of a sudden, it strikes Roger how alone they are. How isolated.

“Did you find it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Rafa answers. He hesitates. “We start at the beginning, no?”

“Sure,” Roger agrees. He doesn’t care anymore.

Rafa starts the movie and it wouldn’t take much for Roger to believe that they’re back in Shanghai. Not because the house looks in any way like their hotel room did but because they’re both inhabited by the same feeling of impermanence. Roger glances at Rafa and it’s a funny thing, isn’t it, that their names should forever be linked, that they will be written down in history books side by side, yet that they can never manage to buy more than a few hours of peace for themselves, a few days when they’re lucky.

“You are not watching,” Rafa says, although he didn’t even so much as turn toward Roger. Then, as if he could read Roger’s mind, “I always know when you are watching me.” He takes Roger’s hand in his, squeezing it, and adds, “You can think later, no?”

“Yes,” Roger says, bringing his attention back to the movie.

He does end up crying and Rafa doesn’t make fun of him, not one bit.

***

It must be near dawn, the dark sky beginning to break into stripes of grey and pink, but neither of them is sleeping. Sleep seems like an inconsequential thing, when they only have so many hours left of this. Of them being together. Instead they’re lying in bed, face to face, and Roger says,

“We should buy a house.”

The words echo in the silence of the bedroom and Roger had no idea he was going to say them until they left his mouth. Now that he has, though, he finds that he doesn’t regret them.

Rafa is looking at him like he isn’t sure he heard Roger right or like he doesn’t dare believe him and Roger says it again, “We should buy a house.” When Rafa doesn’t answer, Roger goes on. “Aren’t you tired of this? It’s always… It’s always hotel rooms and rented villas and this is nice. I mean, it’s a very nice villa but I just thought... I thought it would be nice. Not to always have to do this.” Roger forces himself to stop talking. He is very close to saying out loud what he’s been working so hard to keep to himself for months and he can’t, he _can’t_. 

“It would be nice,” Rafa acknowledges. It’s not a yes, but it’s a good start.

“Yeah,” Roger pushes. “Just, you know? It would make things easier and, anyway, no one would have to know.” Which is the contrary of what Roger wants and not quite true but he figures that the argument can’t hurt.

“I am not…” Rafa exhales. “I am not saying no, no? But we need to think about it. Is not so easy.”

Roger is aware of that. There’s a voice, at the back of his mind, pointing out that he can’t take this kind of decision without talking about it with Mirka first, that there are hundreds of things to consider – where they would choose to buy the house, how they would go about it to keep it quiet. But there are also in his mind, quieting the voice, rendering it almost silent, visions of what could be. Images blooming, unbidden, of evenings similar to the one they had the day before, spent watching movies and bickering. Of ordinary Sunday mornings, spent eating breakfast in bed and feeling too lazy to get up before noon. Of all the hours in between, those ordinary, at times relentless hours, spent doing nothing more than existing next to each other. Images of a normal life.

“Okay,” Roger agrees. “We can think about it.”

Rafa smiles at him, something soft. He takes Roger’s hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and, with a tenderness that nearly breaks Roger’s heart, kisses each one of Roger’s knuckles. When he is done, he presses Roger’s palm right above his heart and says, “Tell me about the house.”

As Rafa closes his eyes, Roger does. He speaks, his words conjuring something that doesn’t exist yet and that maybe never will. Something like the future. Something like a dream. But, right now, Roger can believe in the possibility of it and _that’s enough_ , he tells himself as his voice begins to fade and tiredness overcomes his desire to stay awake. _That’s enough_.

***

The most fragile of mornings aren’t always the ones that come after a fight. Sometimes, they happen after a night of whispered promises in the dark or after acknowledging that you long for something that’s out of your reach. Roger is sitting at the kitchen table and he can’t quite look at Rafa in front of him. His gaze keeps bouncing between his mug of coffee, the view of the sea and Rafa. Every time their eyes meet, he can sense this thing, this tangible thing, unfurling between them. Roger calls it love because that’s the simplest way to define it but he often thinks it’s a poor descriptor. A way to contain something Roger still hasn’t reached the limits of. This morning it’s raw and tender, like a bruise that hasn’t yet healed.

For a moment, Roger is tempted to take it back, to smile and say, _forget about it. It’s not that important anyway_. They could continue doing what they’ve been doing for years, surviving on shared hotel rooms and a few days of escape now and then, fragments of time that are nowhere near satisfying, constantly overshadowed by the inevitability of having to say goodbye. It would be painful but it would also be easy in the way familiar things are easy. If you wait long enough the pain becomes a part of who you are, until you can’t imagine what it was like not to feel it at all. They could do that. Except Roger wants more. A house wouldn’t give them more time and it wouldn’t give Roger what he’s really craving, but it would give them a sense of permanency. Of belonging.

Roger takes a sip of his coffee, mind clearer. “I meant it, you know?” he says. “About the house.”

Rafa’s lips curl at the corner. “I know.” His voice is low and intimate and it wouldn’t take much for Roger to drown in it.

Roger bends his head in acquiescence and they leave it at that, a conversation that will have to be finished later.

When they part, this time, Roger’s world doesn’t crumble beneath his feet. There is the lingering sadness inherent to goodbyes tightening his throat but there is also in his veins, burning bright, hope for the future. Roger gathers Rafa in his arms and they hold each other close. Roger whispers, _let me know about Australia_ , and Rafa nods, his stubble grazing Roger’s cheek.

Roger hopes it leaves a mark. 

***

The rest of December passes in a blur of days spent training and taking pictures with strangers all across Dubai and giving interviews and devoting what’s left of his time to his family. And then, all of a sudden, Christmas is over and they’re in Perth. Which means that the season is beginning again, with new chances at winning titles. Which means that he is very close to seeing Rafa on an almost weekly basis. Rafa hasn’t given him an answer about the house but that’s fine. Roger understands his reluctance, that it would feel like a much bigger commitment to Rafa than to him. He can wait.

Perth goes great and then it’s onto Melbourne and to Rafa and it is such a _relief_ not to have to count the days and the distance anymore. Standing next to Rafa, receiving their ambassadors of the year awards, Roger feels kind of invincible and it shows. Not that Roger cares. He keeps mentioning Rafa – sometimes when asked, most of the time when not – and there is this sense that nothing can go wrong. Roger is playing well, well enough for the first week of a slam anyway, and Rafa is playing well, and London and Shanghai both seem far away.

In a way, it’s like being in the middle of a match and knowing that the momentum is on your side. Every one of your balls touches the lines and even the most absurd of shots becomes a winner. It’s hard, then, to remember that it wasn’t always like this, that it won’t last forever. But, of course, it never does.

*** 

The thing is, they were in this same position not so long ago. Yes, they’re in a different city and in a different hotel room, one where Roger just got rather than one where he waited for Rafa all evening long. And Roger’s pain is also different – more resigned. But, right now, all those things seem like inconsequential details. Slight variants of a scene they’ve already played. One Roger could do without for the rest of his life.

“I can’t stay for long,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Make sure of what?

Rafa is angry and he is sad and he has every right to be. Roger doesn’t understand what it’s like, being let down by your body time and time again and he doesn’t pretend he does. He’s never been good at putting himself in other people’s shoes. All he knows is that Rafa is hurting and Roger is hurting for him. He is also hurting at his inability to do anything to make it better. At his powerlessness.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the end and it sounds feeble. Stupid.

“Yeah,” Rafa answers. “Me too.”

He’s refusing to look at Roger and Roger wants to scream a little. But it wouldn’t solve anything, would it? For a moment, he considers doing it all over again. Taking Rafa’s clothes off and getting on his knees. Except, this time, he wouldn’t just kiss Rafa’s knees. He would kiss every part of Rafa’s body – light, butterfly kisses – until there isn’t one inch of his skin that hasn’t been touched by Roger’s lips. Until he can say, _nothing should hurt you now_ , even though they would both know it’s a lie.   

“Is late,” Rafa says. “You should go, no?”

Roger swallows. “I can… I can stay a few more minutes.” They haven’t even touched each other. Not a kiss. Not the barest brush of hands.

Their eyes meet for the first time since this conversation has started and Roger wishes they hadn’t. Rafa has the face of someone who is doing everything in their power not to collapse and okay. Okay.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, after your MRI?”

“Yes,” Rafa agrees. “Tomorrow.”

Roger has just reached the door, when Rafa speaks again.

“Roger?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck for the match tomorrow.”

Roger nods. There is nothing to add.

He doesn’t remember going back to his room, everything around him fuzzy and kind of a blur. He must have, though, because he finds himself standing in front of his own door. He opens it, his movements slow and hesitant. Mirka is sitting in the armchair, on her phone, but she stands up when he comes in. She takes one long look at him and says,

“Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Roger has never felt so fucking thankful. He divests himself from his clothes and gets in bed as she turns the light off. One hand squeezes his shoulder in an attempt at comfort and Roger exhales. He should text Rafa. He hates the idea of going to sleep like this, without even telling him…

_I love you_ , he sends. Then he puts his phone away, the screen facing the bedside table.

Tomorrow, they will ask him about Rafa. Maybe it’ll be during the on-court interview, if he wins, or it’ll happen later, during the presser. They will ask and he will answer something that’s nowhere near what he wants to say. He will stand out there and speak about Rafa and even if he toys with the line, even if he sometimes plays at crossing it in his mind, he won’t. Not this time and not any other time. He’ll stay on the safe side, the side of plausible deniability. But, for one moment he will feel it again, as clear and transparent as a winter sky expanding endlessly over the Mediterranean. Relief. It will be short-lived and it won’t prevent him from hurting but it will be there. And Roger will breathe.

_(Were you watching and what were your thoughts about what he [Rafa] was going through last night?_

_Yeah we watched it. Well, hmm. It’s. It’s hard to watch, you know)_

***

“So it’s fine?” Roger asks. “I mean, it’s not fine now but it should be fine, right?”

Today, he is graced with one of Rafa’s smiles. “Yes,” he says. “Just… No luck.” He shrugs and Roger chooses to take that as a positive sign. Rafa seems dejected and not too happy with the situation but he’s talking to Roger and there is this thing back in his eyes, this essential thing Roger associates with Rafa. A refusal to give up.

“Good,” Roger says, banishing the tendrils of guilt that have been growing inside him since yesterday. Or attempting to. He moves forward and takes Rafa’s hands in his. “I’m glad.”

Rafa glances down at their clasped hands for the briefest moment before looking back up at Roger. Rafa’s expression is a bit harsher, his mouth set into that line Roger always wants to erase and his heart clenches. What now?

“Roger… We need to talk about it.”

Roger closes his eyes and thinks, _no_.

“Do we?” He doesn’t pretend not to understand what this is about. “You’re injured and it’s been an emotional few days. Can’t it wait?”

Even with his eyes shut, he can sense Rafa shaking his head.

“We are always waiting, no? We are playing a tournament or I am injured or we are…”

_Or we are happy_ , Roger finishes for him in his mind. He doesn’t think about a bright afternoon in Greece, an evening spent watching a movie he doesn’t even really like, a night when he didn’t sleep. He’s done all he could to avoid having this conversation and, on a Wednesday night, in a Melbourne hotel room, his own respite has ended.

“Tell me,” Rafa says. “Please.”

Roger opens his eyes but keeps them trained on their hands. Rafa’s are more tanned than his, they always are, and Roger wants to do something stupid, like take a picture of them, a picture he would never show to anyone but that would act as proof that this existed. That they were real.

“Please.”

And so it doesn’t happen like Roger had imagined it would. It’s not an accident: a slip of the foot, fingers that don’t manage to close on the ball on time. It’s a deliberate thing. Roger jumps. He lets the ball fall on the ground. He says,

“I miss it.”

He idly hopes that it will be enough, that Rafa will nod and that they’ll leave it at that. It isn’t.

“What do you miss?”

“I miss Prague. I miss standing next to you and feeling like the world could see us. Like I know…” now that Roger has begun he can’t stop, “I know this isn’t exactly how it was and I know that we still had to pretend but it didn’t matter. When we were there, I felt sort of transparent. Like people could finally see _me_. And it was enough, you know? I was enough.” Then, so low he can barely hear himself, he adds, “I miss this. Feeling free.”

Saying it doesn’t make Roger feel better. They’ve had their fair amount of fights over the years, some innocuous and some that lingered at the back of their throats for days, sometimes months on end, but, in a way, this is the most terrible thing Roger has ever told Rafa. It was one thing to be aware of it and to think it. One thing to see the same knowledge reflected in Rafa’s eyes. But it’s quite another to utter it out loud. To recognize, once and for all, that there is a wall in front of them, one Roger has no idea how to avoid, no matter how hard he tries. And Roger didn’t do it because he wanted to but because Rafa begged him to.

He blinks, willing the tears away. Not for this.

“I know,” Rafa says. He sounds so very sorry and Roger forces himself to stare at him. There is pain, etched on his features, but he doesn’t seem surprised. He seems resigned. Like it was inevitable that it should come to this. Like he has no fight left in him. Roger wants to break something. “There is nothing we can do, no?”

“Nothing we can do?” If asked, he couldn’t say why he pushes. Or maybe he could. Maybe it would be easier if they actually fought about this, maybe it wouldn’t feel so much like he had just broken both of their hearts. “Jesus Rafa, you won’t even say we’re friends.” And Roger is being unfair, he fucking knows he is because he has a wife and four children and Rafa doesn’t. Rafa has someone he sometimes needs to be photographed with – at official events, on the deck of a yacht, at a party – and that’s not the same thing at all, is it?

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, an attempt to cover Rafa’s stunned silence. The sound of his own shame. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

It’s not Rafa he’s angry with. It’s the situation. His own limitations.

“Okay,” Rafa says, and Roger can’t tell if he’s accepting Roger’s apology or merely acknowledging that there has been one. “You know why I don’t say we are friends,” he adds. It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Roger still admits. “It’s just… Doesn’t it bother you? There will be history books about us, you know, but no one will remember this. Us. The books about us will never be about _us_.” 

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Right there. Roger plays tennis because he’s good at it – no, he’s fucking great at it – but he also plays tennis because, once upon a time, he wanted to be remembered. To leave a mark on the world that said, _here. Look at me: I existed_. And this was a dream when he was a little boy and fantasized about winning Wimbledon and becoming world number one, and it was a dream when he was twenty-one and knelt on the ground for the first time, but he isn’t so young anymore. It’s not enough to say, _I existed_ , and for the world to recognize it. He wants to say, _this is_ how _I existed. This is_ how _I loved._

The resigned expression has left Rafa’s face, now, replaced by understanding. Somehow, it’s even more devastating.

“I would…” Rafa’s voice breaks. “I would…” he tries again but he doesn’t continue. He doesn’t seem to have words for what he wants to express or maybe there are none. Maybe they’ve reached the limits of language.

Roger says, “I know.” And he does. He probably always has. He still wishes that the verbal confirmation of it hadn’t come at such a high price.

Rafa disentangles their hands and puts one around Roger’s shoulders, the other one coming to rest against his chest. Their foreheads are almost touching and it’s a position that is as familiar as breathing. The only thing missing is a tennis racket digging into Roger’s back.

They don’t speak but their silence has nothing to do with how little they can say. It’s a new kind of understanding. If they moved, just a bit, it would be like the beginning of a dance and isn’t that what they’ve been doing all along, in front of the whole world? Haven’t they been dancing?

Roger slides his hands around Rafa’s waist and starts moving, small small steps, hoping that Rafa will follow his lead. Rafa does. There’s no music and their movements are too slow – Roger all too aware that Rafa is injured – for what they’re doing to really qualify as dancing but it doesn’t matter. It’s close enough.

“I miss it,” Roger whispers against Rafa’s lips. It’s the last time he’ll ever say it out loud. Rafa bends forward, capturing Roger’s lips with his, as if, by doing that, he could take Roger’s words inside him and release him from them, at least for a little while.

Then Rafa breaks the kiss and presses their cheeks together. Like this, Rafa half-limping and Roger half-mad with something like grief, they dance. 

***

The next day, somewhere between Melbourne and Port Cristo, Rafa sends him a text.

It says, _Yes, for the house_.

***

If there’s one thing Roger has learnt over the years, it’s that your personal tragedies don’t affect the course of the world. It doesn’t care at all. Your own world can crumble beneath your feet and even though you think that it must show, that your grief must be pouring out of you and feeding the sky, it doesn’t happen. Life goes on and the Australian skies are a brilliant blue. Roger is still married. He is still a father. There is still a slam to be won.

From time to time, he opens his phone to check Rafa’s text, to make sure that it’s real. Roger hasn’t answered it yet, is waiting for the right time. The four words remain unchanged and Roger stares at them until they begin to blur. Then, he puts the phone back in his pocket, or in his bag, or on the nearest table. If anyone notices his behaviour, they don’t say.

From time to time, sentences and phrases from their conversation come back to Roger. He doesn’t call it a fight because he doesn’t believe it was. There were angry words – mostly from Roger – but that’s not enough to make a fight and it’s hard to argue when you’re both mad at the same thing anyway. Not that it makes things easier. Roger remembers the understanding on Rafa’s face and he remembers the cracked sound of his own voice when he said _I miss it_ , again and again, and Rafa’s text, as much as it is keeping Roger afloat, isn’t a promise for the future. It’s a compromise destined to make their present a bit more bearable.

Most of all, Roger remembers Prague. For months, he’s done everything he could not to. When he talked about it, it was in an almost detached way, focusing on the tennis and the business sides of it. He analysed what went right and what went wrong, what they could do better the next time around. But he didn’t think about how he’d felt. It was always there, lingering at the back of his mind, underlying his words during press conferences all around the world but that was as much as he allowed himself to dwell on it. Now, though, he can’t stop. He lays awake at night, trying to visualize what he’ll have to do on the court the next day to win but the colours of the court bleed from blue into black, and Roger’s breath hitches. He wonders if he’ll ever experience such freedom again. 

On Sunday evening, Roger puts all those thoughts away and concentrates on playing tennis. On winning.

After he does win, he cries, quite a lot. And that’s another thing Roger’s learnt over the years, that there are no limits to the number of emotions you can feel at the same time. That moments of great happiness can come along moments of great sorrow. That, sometimes, it’s impossible to tell them apart.

When he gets a minute alone, he checks his phone. There are more missed calls and texts than he can count but he only cares about one of them.

_Congratulations_ , Rafa’s text says _. This is amazing. I am happy for you._

Roger hesitates a few seconds before calling him.

“Hello Roger.”

“Rafa, hey. I, hmm…” They haven’t spoken to each other since the conversation and this is harder than Roger had anticipated. “I saw your text. I wanted to say thank you, you know? Like, properly.”

“It is true, no?” Rafa says. “I am very happy for you. I am always happy for you.”

“Yeah, I. I missed you,” Roger lets out. “I mean, the match was nice but I missed you.”

Rafa laughs and Roger thinks, _I’m missing you right now._

“Maybe next year, no?”

“Maybe,” Roger smiles. “Is everything okay? What did your doctor say?”

“Roger…” Rafa’s tone is fond and amused. “This is your night, no? We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure.” There’s a pause and then Roger asks, “Did you mean it?” He’s talking about another text now.

“Yes,” Rafa says. “I mean it.”

After they hang up, Roger doesn’t leave his hiding spot immediately. He stays where he is, alone in a dimly lit room.

He wishes that there was such a thing as clarity, a bright vision of the future. That life was as easy as a tennis match, a beginning and an end clearly defined, the time between them divided in sets and games and points, and one plain purpose: to win those. But life doesn’t work like this, there is no precise beginning and ending, your own narrative to be forever readjusted, reinvented. Twelve months ago, Roger won his 18th slam and it seemed like such a tremendous thing at the time – after all this wait – that it was hard to imagine that he would stand in the exact same spot a year later with two more. It was also hard to imagine that he would choose to hide in an empty room, trying to hold onto a text as if it were as concrete as a trophy. As solid under his touch.   

Roger shakes his head. Rafa is right. This is his night. And there’s no way to tell if he’ll ever have similar ones again.

So Roger steps out of the room and walks and walks and walks toward the flashes of photographs being taken, toward a thousand lights.

***

“You know I have a phone, no?” Rafa says as soon as Roger answers the call.

Roger is back in his – lonely – hotel room in Rotterdam, lying on the bed with the TV on but he hasn’t been paying much attention to it. He’s been casting repeated glances at his phone, waiting for, well. For Rafa to call. And now he has. He doesn’t sound mad; his tone is amused if a bit disbelieving.

“I know,” Roger answers.

“And you know you can call me. On my phone.”

“I know,” Roger repeats.

“Okay,” Rafa says. “I am just making sure because you do not seem to know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it, it just… Came out?” Roger tries to look contrite although Rafa isn’t there to see him. But it’s true that Roger hadn’t planned on _pushing_. He certainly hadn’t planned on inviting Rafa to come see him through a bunch of journalists. He doesn’t regret it, though. “Are you still in Amsterdam?”

“Yes.” Rafa sighs. “The plane is leaving in five hours.”

“Right,” Roger says. He ignores the disappointment at the tip of his fingers, the suffocating fact that they haven’t seen each other since Melbourne. “Right.”

“So,” Rafa starts and his voice has gone from something light and teasing to something more serious. Roger shifts a bit, leaning back against the pillows, legs crossed at the ankles. He can guess what is coming and they haven’t… They haven’t talked about this again. It’s been hanging in the air between them, unresolved. The thing is, Roger isn’t sure there is a way to resolve it. Rafa goes on, “You are not gonna stop.” It’s more of an assertion than a question but it still demands an answer.

Roger thinks about it. He doesn’t want to make any promises he won’t be able to keep, doesn’t want to say one thing when his mind and his body and everything he is are yearning to do the contrary. You can learn how not to break rackets and how to keep your anger at bay, how not to jump on your sandcastle, how to force yourself to build and build instead of destroying but it never quite disappears, does it? The temptation.

“Do you want me to?” Roger asks. It’s the fairest answer he manages to come up with.

There is a pause on the other side of the line. Then Rafa says, distinct and clear, “I want you to be happy.”

Roger’s throat is full of half-formed thoughts he isn’t sure how to put into words because he’s a professional tennis player, not a writer or a poet. Thoughts like, _I am_ , and, _you make me happy_ , and _define happiness_. Is it holding a trophy in his arms and thinking, _one more_? Is it waking up to the sounds of breakfast being eaten in the kitchen, knowing that when he’ll enter the room five heads will turn toward him and smile at him? Or is it being in the bedroom of a villa in Greece, illuminated by moonlight, and keeping his gaze fixed on the face in front of him in a refusal to sleep?

Roger’s had all that. Has it still.

“I used to feel free, you know?” Roger says, trying to find a way to explain it. “On a tennis court. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes it felt like nothing could reach me, could touch me. And I remember thinking, not when it happened but after, this is it. This is the closest to being free I can get. Did you feel like this, sometimes?”

Rafa stays silent for a while and Roger imagines he must be considering his answer. When he speaks, his tone is light, even delicate if such a thing is possible. “No,” he says. “Not on a court. There was always… There was always too much pain. But I feel this on my boat, I think.”

“I am happy to hear that,” Roger says and he is. “So that means you’re inviting me soon, right?” he jokes. It’s not much but it works. Rafa’s laugh echoes against Roger’s skin, almost abolishing the distance between them. Roger smiles, just for himself. 

“Not now,” Rafa replies. “Is freezing.” 

“Fine.” Roger looks down at his legs, lightly massaging his ankles with his free hand. “Will you… Can you tell me about it?”

“Yes. Of course.” It’s soft and tender and Roger is so very lucky.

And like Roger told Rafa about the house, about a place that could be theirs, Rafa tells him about a feeling that is lost to Roger. He can’t go back to Prague and he can’t go back to a time before that. Nor would he wish to if he could. He can keep chasing it, in press conference rooms all over the world, but he will only ever get a fleeting sense of relief out of it. What he can do is listen to Rafa – his voice giving shape to Mediterranean skies and waters, to the colour of freedom, to blue.

“Thank you,” Roger says, when Rafa is done. “I should probably let you catch a few hours of sleep.”

“Yeah,” Rafa agrees. They don’t hang up.

“Rafa?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is fine,” Rafa answers. Neither of them is talking about the number one.

“Okay,” Roger breathes. “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Rafa says and Roger continues to hear the words long after the call has disconnected.

It _is_ fine. For now, anyway. There are many things Roger is unsure of. He hasn’t talked to Mirka about the house and he can’t begin to fathom how this conversation will go. He has no idea when he’ll see Rafa next. If they’ll ever stand on a court facing each other again. His horizon is limited to this tournament, and tomorrow’s match and getting back this ranking he has been craving. Maybe, one day, the weight of all the things he wants and of everything he’s done in order to get them will be too much to bear and he’ll break. In this moment, though, he is back on his tight rope, taking step after step. The other side is too far away to be seen but Roger believes it must exist. That there is, somewhere in front of him, the promise of solid ground.

Roger takes his sweatpants off and covers his legs with the duvet. The TV is still on and showing the Olympics which means that it is way past the time he should be asleep. He snuggles in a bit more comfortably. The men’s figure skating competition is taking place tonight and the commentators are trying to fill the empty minutes before it begins by talking about one of the hot topics of the week, Adam Rippon. Even though he doesn’t have a chance at a medal, one of the commentators is saying, it is an important thing for an openly gay contestant to be in the spotlight. Roger shuts his eyes but doesn’t turn the TV off, too exhausted to care.

_And isn’t it lovely_ , the commentator continues as Roger starts drifting off to sleep, visions of clear blue skies, a calloused hand he can’t quite hold in his and a house that doesn’t exist dancing behind his closed eyelids.

_Isn’t it lovely, how the world is changing?_


End file.
